The Dragon Commander (SkyLine 1)

“Does the world ever leave hell?” posed the last member of Chris’ unit. Lee’s narrow shoulder blades boxed in a ponytail of jet-black hair, the same color as his almond eyes and the gauges that opened huge holes in his earlobes.

“I feel better than when I first walked up to this God-forsaken building already,” said Chris, giving each of them a grin as warm as he could manage, under the circumstances.

Selene let Chris go so he could get to his old locker and the five finished gearing up. Their gear hung just where they’d left it, weapons still propped upright in the vertical cells beneath. When they were done, their fatigues would layer Fusion-armor jacket over tactical vest, over heat-regulating, dry-tech shirt, with matching pants.

“How have things with Sheba been?” said Lee, between the shuffles, zips, and rifle clicks. She’d always been a favorite of the group, when she and Chris lived in the barracks.

“Great. Wish I had more time with her... I end up staying late at the office most days-”

“Surprise,” muttered Gendric, while the others chuckled.

“But… we did just get engaged,” Chris smiled, to dispel the fun-poking before it could spiral. Four loose-jawed heads jerked at him.

“No way! She popped the question!” laughed Selene.

“Very funny,” said Chris, who actually thought it was, after so long in an office where everyone was mortified of him. “I did it in the park near our new apartment.”

“That’s amazing, Chris,” said Morgan, stars sparkling in her eyes at the notion. But Chris knew his unit well, so when Lee opened his mouth, he jumped in with,

“We haven’t hashed out the details yet. Just that it’ll be on this rock, rather than the red one.”

“How’d you get lucky enough to stumble onto a gal like her?” Selene shook her head. Chris zipped up his jacket while he considered it. “She find a gig out there yet?”

“Not quite, but she’s got a few interested parties on the line. She hasn’t stopped looking for a minute, either. Guess there are enough psychologists on Earth already,” Chris supposed. Sheba’s ability to read him, and anyone, was what had first attracted him to her. He knew that it would attract the right employer- she just needed time.

“That’s why all of them ride the SkyLine to the red rock,” Selene figured. But Chris and Sheba both knew what kind of job opportunities there were on Mars, just as well as they knew how badly she needed to branch out on her own, away from the sickness that plagued her family.

Chris reached to the far back of his locker, for the barrel of his rifle. He ran his fingers down its cold steel neck. It wasn’t a Cold Fusion model. By all rights, it was a relic, like his dad’s pistol in his belt. When gunpowder combustion was the height of weaponry, this model was called an M16, and it was cold. It felt right, natural. In mandatory trainings, Chris had wielded plenty of Cold Fusion rifles, but it was a gross misnomer. The cold part of Cold Fusion only meant, after all, the same reaction that happened inside a star was happening at room temperature inside a power cell. Fusing two elements from deep in the Martian mines got pretty damn hot, Chris had found.

He’d grown with this M16 in both hands, shooting cans with his dad, who’d watched dependence on Cold Fusion develop over his lifetime. He never fully trusted it, technology built from minerals on a planet he thought humans had no business colonizing. They’d already ruined the world they started with, after all. It was a skepticism he inevitably passed to his son. Still, it wasn’t the only reason Chris preferred to take the battlefield with his old M16. He used to carry a Fusion rifle, like the rest of his unit, too. It even stopped unnerving him, after a while, how it fired without kickback. Taking a life should feel like something, his dad would say, it should shake your bones. Chris started to marvel how one could see the path of concentrated mist that drew a line in the air a split-second before the rifle launched plasma through it. To the untrained eye, it was a blazing laser. Chris had almost accepted it, right up until it failed him. It was the day, years ago, when an armed cult had managed to hack the AI in a single Squire, and killed six people. The same one he became Major General.

“Still with the powder-kegs,” sighed Gendric, just before Chris led the unit from the barracks. He responded by ejecting his clip, as an extra safety measure. When he saw it just as full of bullets as he left it, Chris clicked it back in. He slung it over his back. He sheathed a long knife up a compartment on the side of his sleeve.

“Always have an insurance policy,” said Chris. It was another old catchphrase of his dad’s he used to hate, until it saved his life. When he led his unit across the covered walkways to the WCC consulate, a different phrase rang in his ears, from that day. You cannot shoot a thought.

Tim had become so accustomed to working from home, he’d forgotten just how fast a magnetrain zoomed. It had taken him all of twenty minutes to slam dunk a change of clothes, deodorant, and a toothbrush in a bag. He stopped on his way to the st

ation to drop off TE-Les with a co-worker from Nanoverse. He never particularly liked Naomi, but if anyone understood the importance of the breakthrough he’d had with his little robotic friend, it was her. Tim was on the hover-track not an hour after he’d hung up with Dorothy. The tremors hadn’t left his arms when the train doors slid open to let him out at the consulate. His breath hadn’t even steadied when a group of the most terrifying people he’d ever seen strolled down the glaring white hallway, straight for him.

They were so out of place in this politician’s utopia, like five body-shaped holes in the world. Long ponytails, tattoos, vibrant hair, gauges. The one at the head of the pack, though, struck the sharpest note of fear on the off-key piano in Tim’s head. The most unusual things about him were his size, though he wasn’t their largest, and auburn hair. Even amongst them he was out of place. He looked so remarkably normal, yet carried the confidence of command. Tim stared at the laces of his shoes. He hoped they’d just wandered in where they shouldn’t have. He hoped they’d pass him right by.

“Major General Christopher Droan,” a voice rasped down over him. Tim’s skin prickled; his fear condensed in a million tiny needles trying to poke their way out.

“So-so-sorry? Do…” Tim gulped what felt like sand to force his face up at the red-haired man, “Do I know you?”

“Why would he introduce himself if you di-”

“Selene,” Major General Christopher Droan silenced the purple-haired girl with a hand. “We need him sharp. Don’t whittle him down before we even get briefed. Matter of fact, that goes for all of you. No trifling with…” he trailed off with a hand out for a shake. Tim stared into his palm.

“Tim,” he told them. Major General Christopher Droan seized Tim’s hand himself and gave it shake stern enough to jostle him awake.

“No trifling with Tim until we get to Shanghai,” he decreed. The disappointed nods, sighs, and audible aws, like four wolves who’d been denied a gazelle, made Tim shift in his seat.

“Sha-Sha-Shanghai?” he blurted, “Major General Christopher, what-”

“Chris, please. I just wanted you to know who I am,” the man, powerful and humble, corrected. Tim was so moved, he bowed, which called for some snorts from the unit. Chris slapped one of them in the chest to quiet them. “This is my unit. I would name them for you, but I’m sure you’ll be… acquainted long before we reach base camp.”

“Ba-base camp?” said Tim. Stop stuttering! He screamed at himself in the silence of a long breath. He imagined what someone should sound like, talking to a Major General, and forced his tone deeper. “That’s in Shanghai?”